[In the following excerpt, Baskervill surveys Murfree 's work, noting influences on her writng, and commenting on her characterizations, descriptions, use of humor, and literary style in general]

[Murfree perceived the] elemental qualities of our common humanity, but also the sturdy independence, integrity, strength of character, and finer feelings always found in the English race, however disguised by rugged exterior or hindered by harsh environment. Their honesty, their patriotism, their respect for law, their gloomy Calvinistic religion, their hospitality were in spite of the most curious modifications the salient points of a striking individuality and unique character. The mountains seemed to impart to them something of their own dignity, solemnity and silence. . . .

No phase of [their] unique life escaped the keen eye and powerful imagination of the most robust of Southern writers in this most impressible period of her life.

The growth of Craddock's art can not now be traced with certainty, though it is known that she served an apprenticeship of nearly ten years before her stories began to make any stir in the world. The general belief, therefore, that her literary career began with the "Dancin' Party at Harrison's Cove," which appeared in the Atlantic for May, 1878, is incorrect. She used to contribute to the weekly edition of Appleton s Journal, which ceased publication in that form in 1876, and it is a little remarkable that her contributions were even then signed Charles E. Craddock. Two of her stories were left over, and one of them, published in Appleton s Summer Book, in 1880, "Taking the Blue Ribbon at the Fair," rather indicates that she had not yet discovered wherein her true power lay. Although it is a pleasing little story, it is not specially remarkable for any of the finer qualities of her later writings; and it appears out of place in a collection of stories published in 1895, as if it were a new production. The assumed name which her writings bore was finally determined upon by accident, though the matter had been much discussed in her family. It was adopted for the double purpose of cloaking failure and of securing the advantage which a man is supposed to have over a woman in literature. It veiled one of the best-concealed identities in literary history. More than one person divined George Eliot's secret, and the penetrating Dickens observed that she knew what was in the heart of woman. But neither internal nor external evidence offered any clue to Craddock's personality. The startlingly vigorous and robust style and the intimate knowledge of the mountain folk in their almost inaccessible homes, suggestive of the sturdy climber and bold adventurer, gave no hint of femininity, while certain portions of her writings, both in thought and treatment, were peculiarly masculine. . . .

Miss Murfree's literary success really began with the publication of her collection of short stories, In the Tennessee Mountains, in May, 1884. It was at once recognized that another Southern writer of uncommon art, originality, and power had entered into a field altogether new and perfectly fresh. Only here and there was discernible the slightest trace of imitation in conception or manner, while the atmosphere was entirely her own; and to the rare qualities of sincerity, simplicity, and closeness of observation were added the more striking ones of vivid realization and picturing of scene and incident and character. Her magic wand revealed the poetry as well as the pathos in the hard, narrow, and monotonous life of the mountaineers, and touched crag and stream and wood and mountain range with an enduring splendor. All the admirable qualities of her art are present in this volume. The spontaneous, instinctive power of telling a story for its own sake proclaimed close kinship with Scott, while the exquisite word-painting and beautiful descriptions of mountain scenery, with all the shifting phases of spring and autumn, of sunset, mist, storm, and forest fire, could have been learned only in the school of Ruskin and of nature. In the profound and tragically serious view and contemplation of life she is the child of George Eliot and of the battle-scarred South. But her real power, as is true of every writer that has been either an enriching or an uplifting force in human lives, rests upon a sympathetic understanding of human life. Her insight into the ordinary, commonplace, seemingly unpoetic lives of the mountaineers, her tenderness for them, her perception of the beauty and the wonder of their narrow existence is one of the finest traits in her character and her art. Through this wonderful power of human sympathy the delicately nurtured and highly cultured lady entered into the life of the common folk and heard their heart-throbs underneath jeans and homespun. She realized anew for her fellow men that untutored souls are perplexed with the same questions and shaken by the same doubts that baffle the learned, and that it is inherent in humanity to rise to the heroic heights of self-forgetfulness and devotion to duty in any environment. Indeed, the key-note of her studies is found in the last sentence of this volume: "The grace of culture is, in its way, a fine thing, but the best that art can do—the polish of a gentleman—is hardly equal to the best that nature can do in her higher moods."

Each of these stories embodies a "higher mood" of some uncultivated, simple soul influenced by a noble motive, and the good lesson taught with equal art and modesty stirs the heart with refining pity and admiration. Cynthia Ware's long journeys on foot and heroic exertions are rewarded with the pardon of the unjustly imprisoned man whom she loves, only to find that he has never taken the trouble to ask who secured his release, that his love was but a little thing which he had left in the mountains, and that while she was waiting for him he was married to some one else. Through Craddock's skill we become witnesses of this heart tragedy and enter into the inner experience of a human soul which through suffering learns to adjust itself anew, "ceases to question and regret, and bravely does the work nearest her hand. . . ." Again it is the weak and slender Celia Shaw who painfully toils at night through the bleak, snow-covered woods to save the lives of the men whom her father and his friends had determined to "wipe out." Again and again in Craddock's writings the strange miracle of this sweet, trustful, loving, yet heroic girlhood appears amid the lonely, half-mournful life of the mountain folk, intensified by the attitude of the faded, gaunt, melancholy older women, "holding out wasted hands to the years as they pass—holding them out always and always empty"—with the grace, the beauty, and the pervasive fragrance of a wild rose in the wilderness. Our author seems to agree with George Eliot in thinking that "in these delicate vessels is borne on through the ages the treasure of human affections."

Craddock's heroes—blacksmiths, constables, herders, illiterate preachers, and other rude mountaineers—are equally attractive in their way, and are drawn with an even tenderer and more skilful hand. She is a master in depicting those situations which touch the springs of pathos or thrill the heart with a generous elation. . . .

The central idea or the strong situation, however, is not unduly stressed. The touches of incident and of humor and the exquisite landscapes leave unfading impressions. . . .

The large and solemn presence of Nature is never lost sight of, her various moods and manifestations being used, as a kind of chorus to interpret the melancholy or the emotion of the human actors. The narrative is inlaid with exquisite bits of landscape, serving not so much to disclose the range and minuteness of the author's observation—at least in her earlier works—as to give expression to the fitting sentiment or development to the appropriate passion. When the great beauty of the style with which these fresh and robust stories were clothed is taken into consideration, something of the present pleasure and the richer anticipation of the readers of 1884 may be imagined. . . .

[Almost] every year since that time has witnessed the appearance of some new volume. . . .

Though the result is on the whole disappointing—the rare promise of the author's earlier work not being fulfilled in her later more labored efforts. Miss Murfree has taken a place among the very best writers of purely American fiction. The too great regularity of production in which she has indulged has led her into dreary wastes of repetitious shallows, and still more frequently has weighted her stories with mannerisms which mar the beauty and perfection of their art. . . .

A still more serious complaint may be urged against the author's tendency to overdo landscape pictures, and to make needless digressions. Miss Murfree is, above all things, a painter, and particularly in her earlier works has given abundant evidence that she is a real artist in adapting story and landscape to each other. Her description, too, serves a literary purpose, now expressing the fitting sentiment, anon developing the appropriate passion. She seizes and interprets physical features and natural phenomena in their relation to various aspects of human life with at times unerring precision, vigor, and dramatic force. Indeed, the scenery of the mountains is essential to the comprehension of the gloom of the religion, the sternness of the life, the uncouthness of the dialect, and the harshness of the characters presented in her stories.

All her digressions are not irrelevant. Oftentimes what seems to be a mere digression is according to nature, and used with significant effect in the presentation of mountain scene, life, and character. The result is a complete and perfect picture. The mountaineers are proverbially slow of speech and of thought, and during their long reflective pauses in conversation the skilful narrator must interest the mind of the reader just as in real life the listener would seek something for his mind to dwell upon. This gives lifelikeness to the picture, and, like a sweet interlude in music, a charming bit of description serves to fill in delightfully the intervening moments which would otherwise seem unreasonably long and tedious. The opening pages of The Despot of Broomsedge Cove reveal the author at work in her happiest vein and making the best use of this extraordinary gift. With a few skilful touches the corn-field, the winding road, the three mountaineers, each with his salient features of look, gait, and character, made known in the fewest possible words, and the glorious mountain view, are made to stand out before us as in real life, so that the reader becomes identified with the story and naturally shares in the conversation. . . .

But far too often in her later stories the author's descriptions of natural scenery and observations of natural phenomena are excessive. . . . In this particular novel they reach the point of downright padding. The pictures are exceedingly well done, and the observations are sometimes very acute and perfectly true; but they are altogether out of place, and serve only to interrupt the action and to make the reader chafe, till he learns to skip. . . . It may readily be acknowledged that Miss Murfree's people are the people of the district she describes. Folk and mountains belong together. But she deals with life rather as a whole, as a community, a class, at best as a type. She has not succeeded in creating any individual or distinct character. Even Cynthia Ware, Dorinda Cayce, Alethea Sayles, Letitia Pettingill, and Marcelly Strobe, the heroines in as many different stories, are but variants of one and the same type. Slight changes are introduced in adapting them to different situations, but the characters all seem to be drawn from the same model. A graver defect is noticeable in the author's treatment of her heroes, wherein she shows a fatal inability to sustain character. When the Prophet is introduced, revealing in the quick glance of his eye "fire, inspiration, frenzy—who can say?" the reader is thrilled at the prospect of a masterly delineation. He expects to travel along the narrow border-land between spiritual exaltation and insanity. But in only one of Miss Murfree's stories, "The Dancin' Party at Harrison's Cove," does she reveal a sympathetic understanding and appreciation of the character of the minister. With the circuit-riders and pa'sons she seems to have had no personal acquaintance. They are drawn just as we would expect them to be depicted by one whose sole information was based on tradition, hearsay, and imagination. Nor does Craddock at any time exhibit that profound knowledge of the human heart and sympathetic insight into spiritual matters revealed by George Eliot in the character of Dinah Morris. Pa'son Kelsey remains hazy and indistinct throughout the story, the reader is left in doubt as to his sanity, and the catastrophe throws little light upon his character.

The Despot [in The Despot of Broomsedge Cove] offered even a greater opportunity for masterly portraiture. In conception this is one of the most original and striking figures to be found in contemporary literature. . . .

After a few chapters, however, the author seems to lose interest in the working out of her original conception. The hero is discarded for other matters, while at the same time the author's grip of the narrative suffers loss, and the way is paved for irrelevant landscapes and digressions. Even the hero's connection with the tragedy of the story is accidental, and the heroine gradually absorbs the interest and the attention of the reader. The author almost invariably leaves her chief characters looking sadly, if not hopelessly, into the future.

Perhaps Miss Murfree has attempted an impossible task in seeking to invest the meager life and primitive character of the mountaineers with an annual interest. . . .

But the sweep and power of Miss Murfree's narrative in all her finer stories is sufficient to carry the reader over greater difficulties than these. Story-telling is her true vocation. She is no essayist or historian drawn by the fashion of the time into the facile fields of fiction. Fresh material and picturesque character lend, it is true, their unique charms; but, after all, we are interested in this writer chiefly on account of the stories she has to tell of the lives of men and women whose traits are in common with those of all times and all places. While, however, the reader's desire is to reach the end of any of her stories and "see how it comes out," still there are many places where he delights to linger. There are whole chapters in which scene, situation, and incident are handled without a flaw. The situations are admirably planned, the incidents inimitably related. The author can be descriptive or dramatic at will, and shows the command of a humor which has the tang but not the deep thought and mellow wisdom of George Eliot's. . . .

Nor would it be true to life if the humor were left out. . . . It is a characteristic of the race. The Tennessee mountaineer is noted for his dry, caustic speech, and under his slow drawl and rustic manners are concealed no little practical wisdom and shrewd observation. Of course geniality and playful fancy do not flourish in so harsh a region, but there is no lack of pungent, pithy sayings. This humor pervades the mountains. . . .

Without this pungent humor the distinct flavor of the inner life of the strange, unique inhabitants of the mountains would be lost.

Here, then, we have originality, robust vigor, womanly insight, and the charm of a born story-teller brought to bear with genuine art upon a fresh field and a unique civilization. Much of her later work may have suffered from an attachment to the narrow sphere of the mountain folk; but such are her strength of purpose and great capability that it is not unreasonable yet to expect the complete fulfilment of the promise of her earlier work, if the larger world may demand a share of her attention and energies.